Personal Demons
by Technoelfie
Summary: Who said elves are nice? Elves are nasty, and a small glimpse into Legolas' mind proves it . . . A sequel of sorts to 'Divine Intervention'. [complete]
1. Default Chapter

_Disclaimer:_ The **Lord of the Rings** does not belong to me. Bet you didn't know that already.   
  
  
**AN** and **WARNING**: Well, I promised a story from Legolas' point of view -- here it is. It is a sequel of sorts to _Divine Intervention_, but it is definitely darker. Possibly even disturbing.   
  
Also, this is a lemon -- meaning it contains sex. Hence the rating. If you don't like that kind of thing, don't read it. But if you _do_ read it, feedback is very appreciated.   
  
  
Thanks to **Ella** for the beta (and her patience in dealing with my increasingly strange stories). Sorry I forgot to mention it the first time arround. :( I suppose that's what lack of sleep does to a person. 

  
  
  
  


**~ Personal Demons ~**

  
  


**_- Chapter 1 -_**

  
  
I want to hurt her. Sometimes, very rarely, I get the urge to slap her -- with hand or words, it doesn't matter -- just to see that open, wounded look in her eyes, the silent tears, the trembling mouth.   
  
Because I still get the dreams now and then. She doesn't know, and she doesn't need to. It comes at night, that sick, twisted feeling of helplessness when they've caught up with me, smothering me with their empty words and empty lust that has everything to do with my body and nothing to do with me.   
  
And then I open my eyes to her slumbering face -- she still sleeps from time to time; even after a hundred years she clings to the habit -- and remember what we did just before. How she screamed my name as loudly as the fury and emptiness rage inside me, and how, in the final, perfect moment of release she looked into my eyes. And _saw_ me.   
  
I want to hurt her. I want to lash out and make someone _pay_, and she's available. Maybe then the world will make sense again. She's so close I could . . . but I never do.   
  
Somehow, I never do.   
  
She has transformed my father, and she's managed to make my mother happy. I might be drowning in rage, but sane thoughts still manage to creep in through the cracks -- like the vivid, intent look on Thranduil's face as my mother goes by and he finally _sees_ her. They are engaged in a subtle dance, much like ours, but my father is very clearly the hunter, and my mother loves him too much not to yield one day, although he is a cold, arrogant bastard.   
  
This begs the question of what I am, exactly. If my thoughts right now define me, I am so much worse than he. I am a survivor, certainly. I am also a killer, because this is the price I paid for survival. I can make threats go away; I can cut them out, if necessary. This threat comes from the inside, though, and if I cut it out I'm not sure what will remain. It might appease my hunger for revenge, but then again, it might not . . .   
  
She murmurs something, and rolls over. I watch her reach out sleepily, and another sort of hunger rears its head and tries to claw its way out. I clamp down on it and remind myself that the need to wound her doesn't arise from something so simple as hate. And it's not even the thought of seeing her in pain that matters, because my other, _normal_ self would give everything to protect her -- after all, I love her.   
  
No. I want to be the one who hurts her, the only one who has the power to turn her into an abject heap of misery with a few carefully chosen words. I am perversely aware of the fact that ripping out her still-beating heart and presenting it to her on a silver platter would be the kind thing to do. Kinder than the words I am about to say when the right moment arrives. I know that the depth of her pain when I say those cutting, heartless things as if they didn't matter one way or the other is the truest way to measure her feelings for me. If it's agony that floods her eyes and tears _my_ heart to shreds I know that she cares. Deeply.   
  
I also know I would kill anyone in cold blood who would dare cause her even a fraction of the suffering I am planning to inflict on her.   
  
But now she opens her eyes, two chocolate mirrors misty with the unguarded emotions in the first moments of awakening, and what I read there tells me the moment has passed.   
  
Or maybe it has never been there in the first place.   
  
As always, I feel cheated of my revenge as I give in and cradle her close, but I'm flooded with a treacherous warmth nevertheless, and it feels as if my demons aren't howling quite so loudly anymore.   
  
I kiss her deeply, angry that I can't keep my lips from roaming and my hands to myself. She sighs into my mouth, and I wait for the memories to flood me, to taint my feelings and her melting response, but it doesn't happen.   
  
With a new sense of urgency I bite her shoulder, touching her in ways that I _know_ will leave her boneless and begging. It's how I want her, now.   
  
Tonight, I need to be in control.   
  
And I am. But even so, the pleasure is so intense it borders on painful. It amazes me how I am still so greedy for her smallest whimper, the tiniest undulating movement of her hips, the way her eyes turn opaque with lust under the cover of her lashes. I give her pleasure, but she gives me something more, and I find that I need it. I need her kisses, her touch, need to make her scream and say my name in that breathy murmur that is her very own.   
  
It means I am not faceless to her, to be used and then discarded when the next pretty face and the next obsession comes along.   
  
"I love you," she sighs, somehow managing to make it sound sweet and honest rather than trite, and then all is quiet, because I do not say it back.   
  
It is very much later, when I lift my head to kiss her forehead that I see the look in her eyes, both the pity and the insecurity. It was her who wished the memories upon me -- she probably thought I had a right to them. I did not refuse them, because it would have been the cowardly thing to do, and I am not a coward. But they have taken their toll, shaping me as thoroughly as my life in Mirkwood did -- the terrible beauty of the dark forest, the fighting and the killing.   
  
The way I speak now is several hundred years ahead of time for an elf, and the way I think is even more so. All because of the time I have been forced to spend in her world, which is why now I'm not at home here anymore, the same way I was not at home there.   
  
She knows. Realizing that, I also realize I can hurt her even without the words. I can smile, and say nothing, and let her think she is not enough to make up for all they did. Or I can say the _wrong_ words -- I can make a lewd joke that under any other circumstances would have her dissolving into uncontrolled giggles, and slap her backside, making her feel cheap and insignificant.   
  
The end result would be the same in any case, but I wouldn't have been actively involved in bringing it about.   
  
Ah, who am I kidding?   
  
She watches me, her eyes wide and vulnerable. Her exposed throat is an offering for the beast to rip into. Elves are close to nature, in every way. It calls to the animal in me.   
  
For a moment everything hovers on the cusp, uncertain ...   
  
It dissolves into a fierce, desperate tangle of limbs, a strangled gasp -- the beast pounces.   
  
It was the right choice. The animal is savage, but he isn't cruel. Only the elf can be cruel, but there is no room for him here. She's seen to that. She is not submissive now either -- she's feral, biting, scratching, tearing at my hair. For a moment I come to my senses, thinking she is afraid, and renew my efforts to subdue her so I can calm her properly.   
  
It is only a matter of seconds until she has to yield to my greater strength. I've pinned her to the bed, and now I am looking down at her ribcage, lifting and falling rapidly with the effort of breathing, her narrowed eyes.   
  
Did I scare her? I'm not sure. There's so much about her I'm not sure of. She doesn't look scared, though, only furious. She's frowning at me, the drowsy look in her large eyes replaced with a sullen, simmering anger.   
  
"Let go," she says tightly.   
  
I don't do it immediately; I guess I am too shocked that she would refuse me. Her eyes narrow still further, and although she says nothing, I take my hands away and sit up.   
  
As soon as she is free, she grabs my head and kisses me. Her mouth is sweet, her kiss agressively hard. I clench my hands into fists, but they still come up to touch her shoulders, caress the silky skin--   
  
She pushes me away.   
  
We're both on our knees, facing each other and breathing hard. She moves first, sitting back, and leaning against the bedrest, arms wrapped protectively around her updrawn knees. "Now, my little control freak," she says levelly, "we're going to do this as equals or not at all." She smiles, a little sadly. "Not that I don't melt into puddles when you pull that macho elf stunt, but this one is for all the wrong reasons."   
  
I say nothing. I can't dispute that. But I can feel the cold seeping in, shuttering whatever emotion I might have shown. I don't need to look to know that my eyes are becoming hard, bleak mirrors.   
  
She gives a little sigh. "Look, I don't mind sleeping with you to help you with the pain, and you're quite obviously in pain. I don't mind surrendering control. I don't mind giving more that I get. But I do mind being _used_ as if I were an object. A brainless puppet."   
  
She tries, quite valiantly, not to cry. "This has been going on for a long time," she whispers. "We can talk. We can do anything you think might help you, but not--"   
  
She bites her lip, too hard. "Not when you're shutting me out like this," she says tonelessly. I've already hurt her. I never knew it would be so easy.   
  
I wait for the ultimatum, for her to say she is going to leave me if I can't open up, spill all my secrets, but she says nothing else. She simply waits, a drop of blood trickling slowly down her chin.   
  
I value control, but I also value flexibility, and this is a situation I am unprepared for. I must adapt. This is as important as any battle ever was. I consider manipulation for a moment, then discard the idea. Not because of some abstract concept of honor, because I am more assassin that knight and I use any means necessary to achieve a goal, but because she would notice. She is extremely sensitive where I'm concerned, and she would come to hate me.   
  
Then I consider facing myself, the possibility that I am irreparably damaged. That I might be unbalanced, that the demons and red-haired wraiths in my dreams are merely symptoms and the true problem lies deeper, festering away at the core of my mind.   
  
But it isn't only the dreams. There are other . . . problems, other obstacles. Other thoughts eating away at me, blood-dark and hot. Is it jealousy? The very idea is frightening.   
  
Strangely enough it was only a minor incident, only a few days ago, that was the actual catalyst to all this . . .   
  
I stroke her hair while trying to make sense of the turmoil I'm feeling. Buying time, too. Despite herself, she leans into my hand. I kiss her forehead and bring her closer, aware that she's too vulnerable to resist me for long. My hand makes its way down the bare skin of her back.   
  
"I love you." I whisper it right into the small pointed shell of her ear, hear her gasp. "I need you. Now. Will you let me?" I kiss her mouth sweetly. "Please." I can tell she's not used to pleading from me, because it utterly shatters her defenses.   
  
I like her neck. I like nibbling on it. Sometimes, I like leaving marks. It's the most primitive, _thorough_ way of claiming posession. Besides, it drives her mad. As does the feeling of me entering her, filling her. And now, with her so overwhelmed, so utterly at my mercy, I remember . . .   
  
She was wandering the wood alone -- at least she thought she was, because I was there too -- her silent, ever-vigilant shadow. I don't really know why I still do this, since the woods are safe enough, but I was there.   
  
I remember the play of sunlight in her hair, the hushed fall of her steps on the carpet of leaves, the sound of her breathing. The startled catch in her breath as Alafiel dropped from a tree just in front of her. He's always been a show-off with the ladies, but this time it angered me.   
  
His greeting angered me too, the casual, glib sound of his words, her relieved laughter. Well, she excused herself quickly enough, and all would have been all right, but then he called his farewell and she turned so that I could see her face . . .   
  
In that first moment of white-hot rage, I almost went for my knives. Because she'd smiled at him. And if I'm not mistaken it was the same blinding, sweetly dimpled smile she's always giving me when she thinks no one is looking.   
  
After the first rush of rage had died down, it felt horrible. It felt like ice and death on the inside. Alafiel is my friend, and she . . . She is simply **mine**.   
  
My hand clenches into a fist in her hair as I drive harder into her, devouring her throat with my mouth. She sobs, her fingers digging into my back.   
  
Smile for me, mela. Smile for me, my dove.   
  
But she doesn't smile. She can't. She whimpers instead, small melting sounds that almost make me explode. I fill my mouth with one breast and she cries out again.   
  
Come on, honey. Let me touch you. Let me . . .   
  
Let me swallow you whole. Let me fill you. How I love the way she's writhing under me, clutching, trying to get closer -- only there is no closer because I'm already as deep as I can go, impaling her, making her scream.   
  
That's it, angel. Scream. No, don't close your eyes. You can't lie when you keep them open like this. When you're naked and sweaty and wanting like this.   
  
Oh gods, that's it. Kiss me. Make me forget. Make me . . .   
  
Come.   
  
Her eyes are so large, the look so . . . wounded, I think. And although it was so beautiful she's trying to turn away, maybe because her eyes are filling with large, shiny tears.   
  
No, don't withdraw. If I hurt you, I need to see it. I need to hold you, to make it all better. I am perverse like that.   
  
I could kill Alafiel for making her smile, but I am no Othello. I could never be blind enough or misguided enough to kill _her_.   
  
And as I cradle her close, letting her sob herself to sleep against my chest, I know that nothing has been resolved.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer:_ The **Lord of the Rings** is not mine. It's Tolkien's.   
  
  
**AN** and **WARNING**: This chapter is **lemony** too (meaning it contains sex), so don't read it if you're underage or have a problem with the depiction of what is after all a very natural process.   
  
And huge thanks again to **Ella** who was nice enough to beta this for me.   
  
Btw., reviews are very welcome, especially given the somewhat ambiguous nature of this fic. Alas, how can I improve without feedback? I can't, so there. If you manage to read this, it would be realy nice to leave a note. ;) 

  
  


**~ Personal Demons ~**

  
  


**_- Chapter 2 -_**

  
  
  
  
The rain has been going on for days now -- chilly and driving, it discourages even my nature-loving people from venturing out for too long. The ground is a muddy mess, the trees are damn slippery, and the colour of the sky fits my mood -- sullen and grey.   
  
It surprises me as she walks into the hall like a small lost child. Her clothes cling to the delicate body I know so well; her long dark hair clings to her skin, a perfect frame for her pale face.   
  
I know well enough that I am the reason for the traces of sadness I can discern beneath her carefully guarded expression. Gimli would know it too -- for all his brash joviality, he isn't stupid -- and he would have my hide. Thankfully he is away visiting his kin . . . I wouldn't want our long friendship to be endangered by the way I treat my wife.   
  
For a moment I wonder how I could be so sure he would side with her, but it is no use playing mind games with myself -- I invariably end up losing. I keep forgetting that he is _our_ friend rather than mine, and he could not find it in his large heart to ignore her pain, or her fragility.   
  
Well, unlike Alafiel, Gimli is direct. He wouldn't try to soothe her by stealing moments with her behind my back (although the thought is unexpectedly hilarious) -- he would come after me with the axe. And the way her face looks now, that might be a well-deserved fate.   
  
Damn, Anna . . .   
  
"I think I want to be human again," she says quietly and without preamble. The words stop me cold, the chill spreading outwards from the center, freezing the easygoing smile on my face.   
  
I can think of nothing to say. This is no clever maneuvering, no ploy to get my attention or gain my forgiveness. She is going to do it.   
  
"You want to forget," she adds in that small, dead voice as it becomes clear that I am unable or unwilling to answer. "And you are only going to forget if I leave. I asked Ilúvatar. I'd like to leave. I don't--" she swallows, a strange choked sound and the first sign of emotion. "I don't want to live with you like this. I don't think I can."   
  
She is serious. She is dead serious, and I am still unable to string a coherent sentence together. Until now, I have been able to coerce, manipulate or intimidate everyone into doing what I wanted. I get the horrible feeling that I won't manage to coerce or manipulate her into staying. Not this time.   
  
Her composure is crumbling. I reach out, cupping her wet, miserable face between my hands. I resist the urge to cage her in my arms.   
  
"Do you really think you'd be happy as a human after you've tasted of life as an elf? You're basically contemplating suicide, and now you're telling me you prefer it to living with me."   
  
She closes her eyes. "We both know death isn't the end."   
  
I search desperately for means to sway her. Maybe the time has come to be honest. "I won't say remembering isn't painful, or sickening, or degrading. But I need you, and that isn't going to change just because I hate it. Yes, I hate depending on someone -- the fact that it's you does not make it more bearable. I hate it that your face seems the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, although I see _truly_ magnificent elves every day. That doesn't change anything. I still love you."   
  
She laughs, a small, choked sound. "Do you even listen to yourself? It's not enough."   
  
"What is? You'll be miserable without me."   
  
"I'm miserable _with_ you."   
  
I crowd her against the wall with my body, trap her with my hands. She's never failed to become soft and yielding when I did that, and she doesn't now. But this is not a stolen moment between lovers in an open place. This is a desperate attempt to right whatever's going so horribly wrong between us.   
  
"We'll get through this. But I need you to stay."   
  
"I don't want to. It hurts." She sobs. "Give me something. Anything."   
  
I feel the fury rise, drowning the fear. I welcome it, allow it to reach my eyes, to simmer there. "No." I say it calmly, and my eyes betray me only because I want it that way. "If this is going to work, I need something from _you_. If you really love me, you will not run away at the first sign of trouble. You'll stay, and give me time to fix it." Her eyes widen with dismay, but underneath is a tremulous hint of hope. Ah, but I am playing her like an instrument. There's satisfaction in that, and hope, because her feelings are strong enough to overrule a keen intellect.   
  
Outside, the rain continues its steady patter upon the leaves. Anna is looking at me, unblinking. What are you thinking, pet? I cannot discern her thoughts under the layered shroud of hurt, bitterness, betrayal . . . but I need to if I am to decide on a strategy that is going to work.   
  
Would I invade her mind if I could? Strip her of all her secrets until she'd lie trembling and naked in my arms?   
  
I would.   
  
Everything to keep her. She isn't making it easy, though. She's just standing there, trapped between the wall and my body. Wet and chilled and trembling slightly -- not wanting to stay, but not daring to go either. And despite my other, more ambiguous feelings, I feel a sudden rush of tenderness well up.   
  
"You are cold," I say calmly. "Let me warm you."   
  
This time it is no sexual innuendo, although she could take it that way. Does take it that way. Something sparks in her eyes. "No. Legolas--"   
  
But my arms are already closing about her. She stiffens a little. Maybe she expects me to use the attraction between us as a weapon -- I have done it often enough in the past, and she has always yielded. Strange that she should be so resistant now, when all I want is to comfort her -- and myself.   
  
Maybe I have been approaching this from the wrong side. Maybe I should let my feelings -- dark and twisted and raw though they are -- do the work. I cradle her carefully, though tightly enough that I can feel every shivering inch of her, and kiss her forehead. I can feel a protest coming up -- she doesn't want to be placated. I kiss her nose before she can utter it.   
  
"Anna, no. Don't speak. Not right now." I find myself rocking her, smoothing wet black strands away from her face. "Get out of the wet clothes first. Drink something hot -- I'll bring you something. Let us talk. Maybe I have been driving you away, but we can change that. Just don't run." There's more anger in my voice than I wanted to put there, and definitely too much raw emotion, but it seems to work.   
  
She's softening. Accepting the embrace, my arms around her. She's growing softer on the inside too. Her lips are parting in that special way that tells me she's longing for a kiss, so I lean a little closer, touching my mouth to her cheek. Ah, there it is, the little fluttering sigh of surrender.   
  
"All right."   
  
I kiss her eyelids before I lift her up into my arms. "I love you. Even if I don't say it often enough."   
  
She nuzzles her face into my throat, although she doesn't want to. It pleases me to know that, on this level at least, she can't resist me.   
  
"I don't want you to say it," she mutters. "It's enough to show it, and you don't. You're so cold. And you never, _ever_ talk to me. Really _talk_."   
  
"Anna--" She shakes her head, stopping me, but clutches me closer.   
  
"I've tried. I really have. But instead of talking you make some joke and we end up having sex. Mindblowing sex, I'll grant you that, but it doesn't solve anything. And there's that look you get sometimes . . . I can't really describe it, but it's not loving. It's more like you would like to rip my throat out, but decide you don't want to do it just yet."   
  
I never thought she'd see so much. I wonder how long she's been living with that. How long I've _made_ her live with that.   
  
Setting her down for a moment I cup her wet, sulky face in my hands and kiss her thoroughly. Not in order to distract her, but because I need it. I already am a self-centered bastard -- I don't want to imagine what I would become without daily doses of Anna's kisses. The way she clings to my neck right now, I don't think I want to imagine what she'd be without me either. It seems the time when we could function separately is long past.   
  
"We will talk. I promise," I say when I finally raise my head. "I can't promise you'll like what I have to say, but I'll share." Share my dreams and my jealousy, and the insane need to lock her away somewhere so that she's _all_ mine. Well, I may be a bastard, but I keep my promises.   
  
She looks up at me, bright-eyed and a little dizzy. "Why?"   
  
"Because the alternative is too horrible to contemplate." I smile, this time genuinely. "You would go away and become mortal again, and I'd start drinking and sleeping around. Then I'd probably kill myself someday, although I know I would land in the halls of Mandos for an eternity of boredom. And I still wouldn't be together with you." Hell, I'd probably even become mortal for her, and that after I've managed to survive three thousand years of fighting. That should count for something.   
  
"I'm staying," she mumbles tonelessly, and I want to scream out my victory. She's defeated. The signs are everywhere -- the lowered head, the sagging shoulders, the little forlorn sniffle that escapes her although she tries so valiantly to keep it in . . .   
  
All the hate I felt, all the malice . . . everything is dissolving in a long, warm flood of contentment as I lift her back into my arms and realize that I don't want her defeated. I simply want her happy.   
  
Oh, I haven't changed _that_ much -- I'm still rather cold, I can be manipulating, and I have no real problems with killing, but that's elves in general. I'm only better at it than most. And of course there's still the ugly truth to tell, since I intend to keep that promise. So I won't lock her in a tower; I'll even survive the occasional smile she bestows on others. But just because I'll lay most of my cards on the table that doesn't mean I'll stop indulging at least _some_ of my whims. This includes stripping her naked in that little alcove in the great hall whenever I feel like it -- or the broom cupboard _or_ the armoury, for that matter. Not that I'll ever do it with others looking -- I'm much too possessive of that sweet, yielding expression on her face to ever allow somebody else to see it. But she'll be horribly embarrassed anyway, and I'll still tease her about it.   
  
Maybe we'll almost have what passes for a normal relationship.   
  
However, all I want right now is to wipe that sad look off her face; make her realize that this is a beginning rather than the dead end she believes it to be. And as I carry her out of the hall and into the now warm summer rain I have to grin at the memory rising unbidden at the sight of the large gates.   
  
I turn and lift her a little higher, so that her face is level with mine. "Well, say it already," I demand. She looks quizically at me, then back to the doors I've just stepped through with her in my arms, and finally that brilliant, sunny smile lights up her face.   
  
"You're doomed," she declares, linking her arms tighter behind my neck. The downpour continues undiminished; it seduces me into drinking the rain from her lips until I find myself swamped with joy, relief, and a great deal of lust. My hot little she-elf has her greedy hands all over me, our home is only a few feet away, and a good lay lies in my immediate future. I am also quite sure half the forest is watching us by now, but I don't care. We're young, we're in love, and I have just managed a steep climb with Anna in my arms, and also to kick the door open without letting go of her, although she's endangering my balance by violently ripping off my second sleeve.   
  
Her eyes promise she won't go easier on the rest of my clothing, and somehow I find I feel free to touch her without the ugliness of the past or the shadow of doubt at the back of my mind.   
  
I'm almost ready to give myself up to mindless need when something suddenly stops me. Taking her again, however satisfying for both of us, won't solve a lot. It won't prove how I feel about her. It won't prove what I'm willing to give up for her.   
  
So I do the only thing that makes sense considering how flushed and aroused we both are -- I take hold of her shoulders and gently push her away. Then I throw myself on the bed so that I lie on my back, arms spread, and give her an inviting grin. "I'm all yours, lady."   
  
Sometimes even royalty has to relinquish the reins.   
  
"Oh," she murmurs, pursing those eminently kissable lips in thought.   
  
Lucky for me, she's a fast thinker. I grin up at her as she straddles me, adorable and already very naked. And there's a mischievous look in her eyes I've never seen before -- but then again, I've never let her play.   
  
I've been an idiot.   
  
She's bending down now, lashing my heated skin with the fall of her wet, heavy hair. She hasn't even touched me properly, yet I find myself shivering. Her mouth skims along my jaw to my ear, then across the sensitive shell to a spot right below the earlobe. She starts licking me there, with small flicks of her tongue that drive me mad, then she suddenly bites my neck.   
  
I buck so forcefully that I almost throw her off the bed. She laughs, clutching my shoulders for support. Down, boy.   
  
I arch my neck as she suckles on the exposed skin. I gradually become aware of the hot weight of her breasts pressing against my bare chest, the way her parted thighs cradle my arousal through the material of my breeches . . .   
  
_Why the hell am I still having pants on?_   
  
A last nip at my chin and she's sliding down, dragging those firm, luscious breasts over my chest, nuzzling my collarbone, using that hot mouth to suckle at skin that's grown wet and chilly under the dripping cover of her hair.   
  
Now her small tongue is licking a downward path towards the fastening of my breeches and across a taut layer of muscles I suddenly can't control anymore. She nibbles teasingly all over my abdomen while her fingers go to work on the fastenings. A small tug, a longer one, a little fumbling around my ankles and the offending garment is already sailing into a corner where it lands with a thud. Unheeded.   
  
She smiles sweetly up at me and lets her fingers dance teasingly over my thighs, flutter delicately across my lower belly, delicately and picking up speed now . . . What the--   
  
I stare, horrified, as the first wince escapes me, and the first . . . giggle? What the hell is she _doing_? Tickling. _Me_?   
  
No. It can't be. Assassins and hardenend warriors aren't-- _ticklish_. I mean, it's been ages since I-- No. I've never been tickled. Never in three thousand years. I've been beaten; I've been stabbed a few times. I've always returned the offence in kind. Had anyone ever thought to tickle me, I'd have done a lot more than simply rearrange their face.   
  
As the shock subsides I realize I'm still simply lying there and taking it -- twitching and giggling, too. How undignified. Anna, on the other hand, is hooting with laughter as she attacks me again. She hasn't counted on a counter-attack, but she can only laugh louder as I take my revenge by mercilessly tickling her midriff.   
  
I can't really believe it. What started out like very promising sex has ended with us rolling on the bed and screaming with laughter like a couple of children. And here I thought that after three thousand years I was running out of firsts.   
  
Ah, at least I'm the undisputed winner of our little romp. I only stop torturing her as her giggle-strewn squeals for mercy become a little too breathless. I smile as I wipe the tears of laughter from her flushed cheeks and kiss her tenderly because I feel like it. I honestly haven't expected her to throw herself at me, sniffling a little with a mixture of residual laughter and tears.   
  
And then she's hugging me. _Me_, warrior and killer and elf prince. There's nothing sexual in the almost childlike way her arms cling to my waist, and I don't know if I should feel insulted or relieved. Actually, I'm ridiculously pleased.   
  
"Idiot," she mumbles, clutching me, if that were possible, even tighter. I kiss the top of her head.   
  
_You forgot to mention assassin and fighter and future king. And, yes, idiot. Your idiot, Anna._   
  
I don't think I'll ever tell her aloud how right she is. It might go to her head.   
  
Damn. I'm lost.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**~ THE END ~**


End file.
